The Emma of Normandy 2-book Collection: Shadow on the Crown and The Price of Blood. Patricia Bracewell

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      The Feast of St Æthelred dawned clear and sunny. On this day the palace, the Old Minster, and all the streets surrounding the royal compound buzzed with anticipation, as royals, prelates, and townsfolk came together to celebrate the feast day of the king.

      Athelstan, waiting to take his place in the solemn procession forming in the palace courtyard, watched as the lead figures in the column set out through the gate. The bishop led the way, resplendent in a red cope embroidered with golden roods, his hands adorned with ruby rings. Behind him, ten priests walked two by two, each one garbed in a green chasuble for the celebration of the Mass. They were followed by a dozen white-robed acolytes, who bore a flower-strewn litter that carried the massive golden coffer housing St Æthelred’s relics. Following the saint, the king and queen stood ready to lead the royal family towards the minster, and behind the royal party the choir had already begun to chant a psalm.

      Athelstan, in his place behind the queen, thought that she looked as lovely as he had ever seen her. Her hair was pulled modestly into a long, thick braid, barely visible through the opaque whiteness of her veil. The white of her chemise, gathered tightly at her throat and her wrists, contrasted starkly with the deep blue of the cyrtel that hugged her slim figure. She had accented her gown with nothing more than a rope of pearls that looped to her waist, and the only gold she wore was a delicate crown set with sapphires. Beside her, his father was resplendent in gold from crown to hem, to give honour to the saint whose name he bore – and to impress the crowd.

      The procession made its way past throngs of silently reverent town and country folk, who had spilled into the streets to watch the parade of royals, prelates, and the stunning reliquary of the saint. Many in the crowd held crosses; others stood with wide-eyed children perched upon their shoulders.

      As Athelstan entered the Old Minster it took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the brightness of the sunlight to the shadowy vastness of the church. He caught the scent of roses before he could see them. The sisters of Nunnaminster and the ladies of Emma’s court had transformed the cold stone edifice into a bower, for every altar and column wore garlands of fragrant blossoms. High above, bright silk pennons billowed from brackets on the walls.

      The massive organ poured out a solemn processional that echoed over the heads of the congregation as the king led his entourage upstairs to the royal chamber near the altar. Athelstan took his place behind his father and swept his gaze over the hundreds of worshippers standing below. Many of them would have spent the night in the church to claim a choice spot from which to gaze their fill on the glittering royals. Few of the faithful, he thought, observing their upturned faces, would have their minds on their prayers today.

      In truth, his own thoughts were anything but prayerful, and they were far more carnal than was politic or wise. Emma knelt just before him and a little to one side, and to be so close to her when he could neither touch her nor even speak to her was a sweet torture.

      For the thousandth time he reminded himself that she was his father’s wife.

      The words seemed to repeat in his head like a demented litany, but it did not matter. Yes, she was his father’s wife, but his father did not love her, did not even want her.

      And, God help him, he did.

       Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife.

      Which commandment was that? And what about thy father’s wife? If you fell into that sin, was there any redemption?

      He did not care, because he did not want redemption; he wanted his father’s wife, although he could never have her. She was as far beyond his reach as the moon.

      Yet he loved her – a thing that still mystified him. In spite of the laws of God and of man, in spite even of his own will, he loved her. And he did not know what to do, because while his father lived he never could have her.

      The service seemed to last an eternity. By the time it was over his dismal reflections on the hopelessness of his passion for Emma had driven him to near despair. The royal couple led the way out of the church, and he dutifully followed them outside, where they were met by a cheering crowd and a cacophony of bells. Forcing himself to school his eyes and his thoughts away from the queen, he noticed a movement ahead of him and to his right, like the ripple of a wind breathing across a field of wheat. Puzzled, he stared at the brightly coloured crowd, and amid their hues of green and yellow and rust, he made out a lone black form moving, swift as a hawk’s shadow, towards the king.